Free Erotic Stories

One Night Ad

His phone buzzed against the laminated desk. Another Craigslist reply, probably another scammer or a couple looking for a third. He almost didn’t open it. The subject line was just "You free tonight?"—no caps, no punctuation, like it had been tossed off in a hurry. The body of the message was even shorter: *21F. Never done this before. Your place or mine?*

Mark’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. He’d written half a dozen drafts in his head since posting the ad, each one smoother than the last, but now his mind was blank. He typed, deleted, typed again. *My hotel. 8 PM?* He hit send before he could second-guess it.

The reply came faster than he expected. *Cool. Send the address.* No questions, no hesitation. It didn’t feel real. He stared at the screen, half-expecting the message to vanish, but it didn’t. The clock above the front desk ticked louder than usual.

Mark had spent the last three days driving past the university campus twice a day—once in the early gray of morning, again when the streetlights flickered to life—watching the girls stride between buildings in their tight jeans and oversized sweatshirts, backpacks slung over one shoulder, laughing into their phones. He’d rolled his window down once just to hear the sound of their voices, the way they teased each other with that careless, musical ease. The rental car smelled like stale coffee and printer ink from the office, but for a moment, with the breeze carrying their chatter, he could pretend.

He’d almost missed his exit one evening because a girl in a denim skirt had been standing at the crosswalk, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her thighs glazed with late afternoon light. She hadn’t looked at him, not once, but his hands had tightened on the wheel anyway. That was the thing about being invisible at his age (68)—he could look all he wanted. They never noticed.

Now, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, he wondered if the girl who’d messaged him had been one of those faces in the crowd. Maybe she’d seen him too, noticed the way his gaze lingered a second too long at stoplights. The thought made his pulse hitch. He checked his phone again—7:12—and stood to adjust the thermostat, then the curtains, then the pillows. Useless, nervous motions. The room wasn’t large, but it suddenly felt cavernous, every sound—the hum of the minibar, the distant elevator chime—amplified in the silence.

He opened the closet door and stared at his suitcase, half-unpacked, his ties still coiled neatly in their organizer. Should he change? Put on something nicer than this rumpled button-down? Or would that look like he was trying too hard? He ran a hand through his hair, fine and silver, and exhaled. Forty-three minutes left. He sat back down, the mattress creaking under his weight, and pressed his palms to his knees to keep them from bouncing.

Mark pulled up his original ad again, the blue light of his phone casting shadows under his eyes in the dim hotel room. *68M seeking curious college girl for discreet fun*, it read. He’d been careful to include his age, hadn’t he? Yes—there it was, plain as day. He tapped the screen, scrolling past the handful of replies that had trickled in over the days, most of them littered with emojis or obvious scams ("I accept gift cards as payment!"). Hers stood out like a flare in the dark: blunt, unpadded, no-nonsense. *21F.* Just typing the number in his head made his breath come quicker. Twenty-one. Christ.

The bedside clock ticked toward 7:30. He imagined her walking across campus right now—maybe in those leggings all the girls wore, the ones that clung to every curve, or a sundress with straps thin enough to slip off with one finger. Would she have freckles? A tattoo peeking out from under her sleeve? He realized, with a jolt, that he hadn’t even asked for a photo. It didn’t matter. The anonymity was part of the thrill, the not-knowing, the way his pulse kicked up at the thought of the door opening and there she’d be: young, warm, smelling like whatever cheap shampoo she’d grabbed from the dorm shower that morning.

A knock came at 7:58—two sharp raps, then a pause. Mark’s hands, which had been resting on his thighs, twitched. He stood too fast, his knees popping in protest, and smoothed his shirt down over his belly. The peephole distorted the shape outside his door into a fishbowl blur: a flash of dark hair, the slope of a shoulder. He swallowed, turned the lock, and opened it.

"Hi!" she said, and smiled. Mark stood there, trying to put a thought together, just staring at her. She was about 5'4", petite, with perky, plump breasts, at least a DD cup. She was wearing those tight black leggings he had seen all the girls wear, and a plain white tank top, with a black lace bra underneath, clearly to match the leggings. The straps peeked out from under the thin fabric, digging slightly into her freckled shoulders. No backpack, no purse—just a phone clutched in one hand, and car keys in the other, with perhaps too many keychains. Her nails painted a chipped navy blue.

She tilted her head, still smiling, but her eyes flicked over his shoulder into the room. "Can I come in, or…?" Her voice was lighter than he’d imagined, with a hint of a laugh underneath, like she already knew the answer.

Mark stepped aside too quickly, bumping the door with his elbow. "Yeah. Yeah, of course." The scent of her hit him as she brushed past—vanilla body spray, the tang of spearmint gum, something underneath it all that was just her, warm and slightly sweaty from the walk over. She didn’t pause to look around, just strode to the foot of the bed and turned to face him, hips cocked.

"You’re taller than I thought," she said, chewing her lower lip. Her teeth were slightly crooked, one incisor overlapping the other. "I mean, not that I was imagining you, but—" A shrug, the tank top slipping down one shoulder. "You get it."

Mark didn’t get it. He was still stuck on the way her leggings disappeared into the curve of her waist, how the light from the bedside lamp caught the sheen of her lower lip. His mouth was dry. "Do you want a drink?" he managed, gesturing to the minibar like it was a lifeline.

She laughed outright then, a bright, startled sound. "Oh my god, are you nervous?" Her hand went to her chest, fingers brushing the lace edge of her bra. "That’s kinda cute."

Mark felt his cheeks heat at her laughter, an unfamiliar rush prickling up the back of his neck. He hadn’t blushed in decades—not like this, not with the kind of intensity that made his ears burn. “Maybe a little,” he admitted, rubbing his palm against the stiff fabric of his slacks. “You’re… not what I expected.”

She grinned, twirling a strand of dark hair around one finger. “Good different or bad different?” Her voice was playful, but there was a flicker of something else underneath—hesitation? Curiosity? He couldn’t quite pin it down.

“Good,” he said, too quickly. “Definitely good.” The silence stretched between them, thick and awkward, until she broke it by kicking off her shoes—cheap canvas sneakers with the laces frayed at the ends. They hit the carpet with twin thuds.

“So,” she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. “How do you wanna do this?” The question hung in the air, blunt and unvarnished. Mark’s throat tightened. He’d fantasized about this moment for years—decades, if he was honest—but now that it was here, his mind was a blank slate.

Mark exhaled, his shoulders loosening slightly as he gestured toward the stiff floral-patterned couch wedged between the bed and the window. "I don't know," he admitted, voice rougher than he intended. "Do you—maybe we could sit for a minute?"

She didn't hesitate, just flopped onto the couch with the unselfconscious grace of someone who'd never worried about her joints cracking. The cushions sighed under her weight, her leggings making a soft shushing sound against the upholstery as she crossed one leg over the other. Mark sat gingerly beside her, leaving a careful six inches of space between them—close enough to smell the spearmint on her breath, far enough to pretend he wasn't counting the freckles dusting her collarbones.

The silence should have been unbearable, but she filled it by twisting to face him, her knee brushing his thigh. "So," she said, dragging the word out like she was testing its weight. "You ever done this before?" Her fingers toyed with the hem of her tank top, hiking it up just enough to reveal a sliver of smooth stomach.

Mark's pulse thudded in his temples. "Not like this," he admitted. He'd had affairs—discreet, expensive women who knew how to handle a man his age—but nothing like this raw, unpolished proximity. Her knee pressed more firmly against him, warm even through the fabric of his slacks.

She grinned, sudden and bright. "Me neither." Her hand landed on his wrist, her nails—chipped polish and all—tapping against his watch. "Guess that makes us even."

Mark turned his palm up beneath hers without thinking, his fingers closing around hers. Her skin was softer than he'd imagined, her grip surprisingly firm. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in, her other hand braced on his thigh for balance, and whispered, "Tell me what you want," close enough that her breath stirred the silver hairs at his temple.

He could have listed a hundred things in that moment—the way her tank top gaped slightly when she leaned forward, the press of her knee, the fact that she hadn't flinched at the liver spots on his hands—but what came out was, "Just this."

Her laughter was quiet this time, almost private. "That's a start," she said, and kissed him.

Mark kissed her back with the tentative hunger of a man rediscovering a language he'd forgotten. His hands, liver-spotted and slightly trembling, slid up her sides, mapping the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her tank top. She made a small, approving noise against his mouth and shifted forward, her knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. The weight of her—real, solid, unmistakably here—sent a jolt through him.

Her arms lifted without hesitation when his fingers found the hem of her top, her elbows brushing his wrists as the fabric peeled away. The black lace bra beneath was simpler than he'd imagined—no frills, just functional stitching strained slightly by the fullness of her breasts. She wriggled her shoulders free and grinned at his sharp inhale. "Like what you see?" Her voice was teasing, but her cheeks flushed pink when his thumbs traced the scalloped edge of the lace.

The couch creaked as she adjusted her stance over him, her leggings stretching taut. Mark could feel the heat of her through his slacks, the faint dampness where her thighs pressed against him. One of her hands slid into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. "You're staring," she murmured, her thumb brushing the stubble along his jaw.

He was—at the way her collarbones caught the light, at the mole just below her right rib, at the way her breath hitched when he finally cupped her breasts through the lace. Her back arched instinctively, pushing into his palms, and Mark marveled at the simplicity of it: no pretense, no performative sighs, just her body responding to his touch with unguarded honesty.

She rocked against him once, experimentally, and the friction drew a groan from deep in his chest. Her answering laugh was breathless. "God, you're—" She cut herself off by sealing her mouth over his again, her hips moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm now. The keychains on her car keys jingled faintly where they'd fallen to the carpet, a mundane counterpoint to the way her nails dug into his shoulders.

Mark's hands dropped to her waist, gripping the supple curve of her hips through the leggings. He could feel the indentations where the elastic had bitten into her skin earlier, the faint sweat cooling between her shoulder blades. Real. She was so vividly, overwhelmingly real—from the chipped polish on her toes to the way she bit his lower lip when he thumbed her nipples through the lace.

Mark's fingers scrambled at the clasp of her bra like he was trying to solve a puzzle blindfolded—twisting, grazing, slipping off entirely. She broke the kiss with a quiet laugh, sitting back just enough to look down at him. "Here," she murmured, reaching behind her back. In one fluid motion, the clasp gave way, and the black lace tumbled to the carpet. Her breasts—full, heavy, tipped with pink—barely dipped with the release. Just hovered there, perfect and defiant against gravity.

His hands were on her before she could blink, palms curving around the weight of them, thumbs brushing over her nipples. Real. No implants, no telltale scars—just warm, supple flesh that yielded under his grip. She gasped when he ducked his head and took one into his mouth, his tongue circling the peak in slow, reverent strokes. Her moan was loud enough to startle them both, her fingers knotting in his hair as she arched into him. "Oh fuck," she breathed, hips grinding down against the growing hardness in his slacks.

The minibar hummed. The AC kicked on with a rattle. None of it mattered—not when her thighs tightened around him, not when she rocked forward to offer her other breast to his mouth with a wordless noise of encouragement. Mark sucked gently, tasting salt and vanilla, marveling at the way her body responded—how her nipple hardened further against his tongue, how her breath hitched when he scr*ped his teeth just so.

She tugged his head back suddenly, her eyes dark. "Your turn," she said, and before he could process it, her hands were at his belt, the leather sliding free with a whisper. Her fingers were shockingly deft—no hesitation, no fumbling—just the crisp pop of his button, the rasp of his zipper, and then her palm pressing against him through his briefs. Mark groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily. She grinned, hooking her thumbs into the waistband. "Guess I'm better at this part," she teased, and then his last scrap of clothing was pooling at his ankles.

The carpet fibers pressed into her knees—rough, industrial-grade, the kind that left tiny red indentations on bare skin. She didn't seem to notice, too focused on the weight of him in her hands, her thumbs smoothing over the veins with a curiosity that made his stomach clench. Mark braced himself against the couch, fingers sinking into the upholstery, as she tilted her head and blew softly across the tip. The warmth of her breath was maddening against his damp skin.

"Jesus," he hissed, hips twitching forward involuntarily. She grinned up at him, her dark eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and dragged her tongue along the underside in one slow, deliberate stroke. The contrast was obscene—her youth, her smooth freckled shoulders, the way her lips glistened when she finally parted them to take him in.

She didn't tease him long. With a small, satisfied noise, she sank down until her nose brushed his stomach, her throat working around him. The sensation was dizzying—wet heat, the flutter of her swallowing, the scr*pe of her nails against his thighs. Mark's head thumped back against the couch, his breath coming ragged. She pulled off with an obscene pop, her lips swollen and slick. "Okay?" she murmured, her thumb circling the head.

Mark could only nod, his throat too tight for words. She laughed—quiet, throaty—and dove back in, her pace quicker now, her hands working what her mouth couldn't reach. The keychains on the carpet jingled faintly as she shifted her weight, her free hand sliding up to palm his stomach through his rumpled shirt. It was the casualness that undid him—the way her fingers absently traced his navel between strokes, like this was just another Tuesday night for her.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a text notification. Neither of them glanced at it. The AC rattled again, pushing a gust of cool air across their flushed skin. She hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to his groin, and Mark's fingers found her hair—not guiding, just anchoring himself to the reality of her mouth, her breath, the way her knees had started to leave impressions in the cheap hotel carpet.

"You're incredible," Mark gasped, his fingers threading through her dark hair—not pulling, just holding—as she took him deeper, her throat fluttering around him. His other hand slid down to cup one of her heavy breasts, the weight of it warm and yielding in his palm. Her nipple stiffened against his thumb, and she moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk.

She pulled back just enough to glance up at him, her lips slick and parted, a strand of saliva connecting her to his tip. "Yeah?" she breathed, tongue darting out to catch the drop at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers kneaded the flesh of her other breast, offering it to him like an unspoken question. Mark groaned, tugging her closer by the hair until her chest was flush against his thighs, her nipples brushing the coarse silver hair of his stomach.

The contrast was dizzying—her smooth skin against his weathered body, the way her breath hitched when he rolled her nipple between his fingers. She rocked forward onto her knees, pressing into his touch, her mouth finding him again with a hunger that belied her earlier teasing. This time, she didn’t stop until her nose was buried in the wiry curls at his base, her throat working around him in slow, deliberate swallows.

Mark’s grip tightened in her hair, his hips lifting off the couch in spite of himself. The room smelled like her—vanilla and sweat and something faintly chemical from the hotel shampoo—but underneath it all was the musk of his own arousal, thick and unmistakable. Her fingers dug into his thighs, urging him deeper, and for a wild moment, he wondered if she’d done this before after all—if the practiced way she hollowed her cheeks was something she’d learned in dorm rooms or backseats of cars.

Then she gagged, just once, and the illusion shattered. Her eyes watered as she pulled back, coughing around a laugh. "Shit," she rasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I—" But Mark was already hauling her up by the arms, his mouth crashing into hers before she could finish. She tasted like salt and spearmint and him, her breasts crushed against his chest as he kissed her breathless.

"Don’t apologize," he muttered against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "Just—here." He lifted her to a stance and grabbed her leggings, pulling them down.

She wobbled slightly as she peeled the leggings down her thighs, the fabric clinging stubbornly around her ankles. "Who knew these were fucking impossible to take off," she muttered, half-laughing as she braced one hand on his knee for balance. The other foot came free with a final tug, sending her stumbling forward a step—bare now. Mark caught her wrist before she could topple into him, his grip firm but gentle.

The silence stretched as she stood there, suddenly vulnerable under the yellowing hotel lights—no tank top, no leggings, just her flushed skin and the quick rise-fall of her chest. A constellation of freckles dotted her ribcage; a fading tan line cut across her hips. Mark swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Come here," he murmured, tugging her toward him before he could overthink it.

She went willingly, straddling his lap with the easy confidence. Their mouths met clumsily at first, her teeth bumping his, until she sighed into it and let him take the lead. Her hands skimmed up his chest, nails catching on the silver hairs, before dropping between them to fist his cock.

Mark hissed when her fingers wrapped around him—still slick from her mouth—her grip almost too tight. She guided him to her entrance with none of the hesitation he'd expected, rocking forward until the head caught against her. "Fuck," she breathed against his mouth, her thighs trembling as she sank down inch by inch. The stretch made her pause halfway, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Mark held perfectly still, watching her eyelashes flutter—until she exhaled sharply and took him to the hilt.

The sound she made was punched-out, raw, her inner muscles fluttering around him as she adjusted. Mark groaned, his hands spanning her waist, thumbs brushing the jut of her hipbones. "Okay?" he managed, his voice wrecked already.

She nodded, swallowing hard, then rolled her hips experimentally. The motion dragged a moan from both of them—her head falling back, his fingers tightening on her skin. "Yeah," she gasped. "Yeah, just—" Another roll, deeper this time, her thighs flexing as she found a rhythm. The couch groaned beneath them, the cheap upholstery squeaking with every thrust. "You're so fucking thick".

Mark could feel the sweat gathering at the small of her back, the way her breath hitched when he angled up into her. Her braid had come half-undone, dark strands sticking to her neck and shoulders. He wanted to taste the salt there, wanted to map every freckle with his tongue—but she was moving faster now, her nails scraping down his chest as she chased her own pleasure.

The bedside lamp cast her in gold, her body arching with each downward stroke. Mark could only watch, transfixed, as her expression shifted—lips parting, eyes squeezing shut—before she came with a shuddering cry, her thighs clamping around his hips.

"Christ," he choked out, thrusting up into her.

Mark knew he only had another minute or two—could feel it in the way his thighs trembled, in the tight coil low in his belly. He locked his arms around her waist and stood in one fluid motion, keeping her impaled on him as he rose. Her surprised gasp morphed into a moan as he took two stumbling steps toward the bed, never breaking rhythm, her legs swinging loosely around his hips. The backs of her knees hit the mattress first, then her shoulders, her dark hair fanning out across the cheap polyester duvet. He didn’t let go, just braced one knee on the edge of the bed and kept driving into her, his shadow falling across her flushed chest.

Her breasts jostled with each thrust, the pink nipples pebbled tight. Mark stared, mesmerized by the way they swayed—heavy, unrestrained, the undersides glistening with sweat where they pressed against her ribcage. Her hands scrabbled at his wrists, not pushing him away but clinging, her nails leaving crescent moons in his skin. "Don’t stop," she panted, her heels digging into the small of his back. "Fuck, just like that—"

The headboard knocked against the wall in a steady thump-thump-thump, the sound muffled only by her choked-off cries. Mark could feel her trembling around him again, her inner muscles fluttering in uneven pulses. He dropped his forehead to hers, their sweat mingling, and fucked her through it, his pace turning jagged. "Look at me," he gritted out, and her eyes—dark, unfocused—snapped to his. That was all it took. His orgasm ripped through him like a live wire, his hips stuttering against hers as he came with a groan that sounded ripped from his chest. He exploded inside her, emptying all of his pent up tension.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the ice machine down the hall. She winced when he finally pulled out, her thighs falling open bonelessly. Mark collapsed beside her, his knees protesting the sudden stillness. The sheet stuck to his back, damp and vaguely sticky.

She turned her head toward him, her cheek smushed against the pillow. "So," she said, her voice hoarse but grinning, "that was really hot"

Mark huffed a laugh, his arm flopping out to brush her hip. Her skin was fever-warm under his fingertips. "Yes it was."

She hummed, stretching like a cat, her breasts flattening against her chest. The keychains on the floor jingled as she kicked her feet. "Good."

She sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist, and reached for her phone.

Her thumbs flew over the screen with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent half her life texting, the blue glow casting sharp shadows under her chin. Mark watched the way her lips twitched—a smirk at one message, a quick bite of her lower lip at another—before she tossed the phone onto the rumpled duvet with a quiet thud. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the soles of her feet grazing the carpet as she reached for her discarded tank top. "I have to go," she said, shaking the fabric out with a snap, "but that was super hot." The words were casual, almost breezy, but her fingers lingered on the hem for a second too long before she tugged it over her head.

Mark sat up, the sheets slipping down to pool around his waist. His knees protested as he shifted to the edge of the mattress, the ghost of her weight still warm beside him. She was stepping into her leggings now, hopping slightly to pull them up over her hips, the black fabric swallowing her freckled thighs inch by inch. "Is that what you thought," he asked, his voice rougher than he intended, "being with an older man would be like?"

She paused mid-motion, one hand braced against the dresser for balance, and shot him a look he couldn’t decipher—somewhere between amusement and something softer, almost thoughtful. "Honestly?" She yanked the leggings the rest of the way up with a decisive snap. "I didn’t think it’d be this…" Her fingers fluttered in the air as she searched for the word. "Real. You know?" She bent to scoop her bra off the floor, the straps trailing from her fist like wilted petals. "Like, you didn’t just fuck me and check your watch after."

Mark blinked. The observation was so blunt it stung, but the corner of her mouth quirked up as she fastened the clasp behind her back with a practiced twist. "Not that I’d know," she added, shaking her hair out of the straps, "but I figured guys your age would be all business."

The minibar hummed. Outside, a car door slammed. Mark studied the indentations her knees had left in the carpet—tiny, temporary marks that would vanish by morning. "And now?" he asked.

She grinned, slipping her feet back into her sneakers without bothering to tie the laces. "Now I’m gonna be late for my study group." But she leaned in before leaving, her mouth brushing his ear: "And now I know better."

Mark stood, the cool air conditioning raising goosebumps on his bare skin as he followed her to the door. His knees protested the movement—the sudden shift from horizontal to vertical after so much exertion—but he ignored it, his gaze catching on the way her leggings clung to the curve of her ass as she bent to retrieve her keys from the carpet. She straightened, twirling them around one finger, the jingle of keychains too loud in the quiet room.

When he reached past her to open the door, the hallway’s fluorescent light spilled in, harsh and unforgiving compared to the dim warmth of the room. She hesitated on the threshold, her sneakers squeaking against the industrial carpet, then rose onto her tiptoes—so slight, so young—and pressed her lips to his in a quick, chaste kiss. Her mouth still tasted faintly of him. "That was fun," she said, pulling back with a grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes.

Mark didn’t respond, couldn’t, his throat tight with something he couldn’t name. She turned away before he could find the words, her dark hair swinging as she strode down the hallway without a backward glance. He watched until she disappeared around the corner, the elevator chiming faintly in the distance, then shut the door with a quiet click.

The silence of the room pressed in on him, sudden and suffocating. The bed was a wreck—sheets twisted, pillows flung to the floor, the indentation of her body already fading from the mattress. Mark’s fingers brushed the damp spot where she’d lain, the warmth lingering under his fingertips. A small puddle of his cum at the edge of the bed. He exhaled, long and slow, and reached for his slacks crumpled at the foot of the bed. The fabric was still warm from her hands.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a notification—some automated message from the hotel about checkout times. Mark ignored it, shrugging into his shirt instead. The collar smelled like her vanilla body spray. He hesitated, then brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply before catching himself and tossing it aside with a scoff. Foolish. She was already halfway back to campus by now, to her study group, to her life.

The minibar hummed. Outside, a car engine revved, tires squealing against asphalt. Mark sat heavily on the edge of the bed, the springs creaking under his weight. His reflection in the darkened TV screen was blurred, indistinct—just the outline of an old man in a quiet room.

He never even got her name.